Erase me slowly—
with great care—
scrub each fold of skin
with warm, unscented water
rinse clean your acid septal wall.
Habbakuk moans
on the asphalt seam of grass.
And weeps for a vision that has
long since disappeared.
Above him soars
two vultures,
licking their calcified beaks,
leering, longing for his sores.
A prophet, visionless,
has no home.
Water running off
the rock,
pencil shavings
christen a new
blank page,
bone picked
carrion-clean.
You sing no,
cold, stubborn
prolegomenon
to Hallelujah.
But sun’s song breaches,
rays snap
leaves into
a burning bush of
Yes.
Great lengths she’s gone to reach you,
great patience summoned up
to wait for you
on the seashore line of grass.
Prophecy’s not science,
but an art
of faith and flaming coal,
sun-chalked visions,
flickering,
just beyond
blurred sight.
Sweet Unrest 